The Way We Fall
by Starcrier
Summary: Because sometimes all it takes is a push. It's been eighteen months since Bane fell, and Gotham has regained a semblance of normalcy. But the peace is threatened once again when The Maestro goes missing and a dark plot stirs in the shadows. And, as always, nothing is what it seems. Sequel to "For Your Entertainment", Crane/OC
1. Chapter I

_The Way We Fall_

_Isn't it beautiful  
__The way we fall apart?_

– "_We Fall Apart", We As Human._

_Chapter I_

Some things never quite resolve themselves.

Some things, despite both our best efforts and the passage of time, can only ever remain in the same, stubbornly consistent limbo. And, as I wake up screaming for the third time this week, I can do nothing but wish that _this_ wasn't one of those things.

_Fire and war and masks, so many masks. A violin splintering into pieces. Angels burning as they fall. Crimson ice and sooty snow. Scarecrows._

It takes me a moment to ground my mind in reality and stifle the sounds tearing along my throat, but I'm a master at this by now, at centering myself (_still sitting at the piano, still cold, still alone_) and listing off what I know to be true.

_Gotham is free. _

_Bane is dead. _

_My kids are alive. _

_I am... _

I give a shaky inhale and stop there. I always do, unwilling to add the last word of the mantra, because it is perhaps the most dubious of the four. "Safe" is such an absolute term, something you're supposed to not only know but _feel_. Even with my own newfound reclusiveness I have yet to experience an actual feeling of security. Part of me doubts I ever will.

Beside me, Rococo – my massive Great Dane – sits up and lets out a whine, resting his head on my lap. I stroke his ebony fur with trembling fingers, grateful, as always, for his familiar presence.

Taking a moment to calm my breathing, I cringe when I try to move my neck – this isn't the first time I've fallen asleep at the piano – and listen, hoping to hear silence. Mercifully, all is peaceful in my secluded little world, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief that my damaged psyche has yet to disturb anything.

A glance out the panoramic, floor-to-ceiling windows directly in front of me (at least the parts that aren't covered by sheet music) tells me it's early, probably seven or eight judging by the sounds of traffic outside. I ease onto my feet, hearing my spine crack as I slide around the edge of the bench and brush my hair away from my eyes with ink-stained hands. I've barely left the piano for four days except to take Coco out, having recently been struck with a near-violent burst of inspiration for a new song. It's hardly surprising, given the circumstances.

With a small sigh, I maneuver my way through the halls, my dog on my heels – I'll never quite get used to how big this place is – and head for the kitchen. I can't really remember the last time I've eaten, but I estimate that it's been a while due to the ferocious growling in my stomach and the fact that I'm swaying on my feet. Rococo's bowl has been kept full, I note with a twinge of both relief and guilt; I've been too lost in my haze of music to remember to do it myself.

Judging by the nearly-empty shelves of the pantry, it's also been a while since I've been to the grocery store. But there's half a loaf of bread, to my delight, and a jar of raspberry jelly two days away from going bad in the back of the fridge, and for the next ten minutes I do nothing but shovel toast in my face.

The kitchen in this penthouse is amazing; everything is stainless steel and industrial, somehow appearing tasteful despite the bulkiness of the equipment. The appliances were already here when I moved in, as was most of the furniture; all I'd had to do was bring a few boxes of personal items – clothes, toiletries, books, posters, and sheet music – and my instruments, but everything else had been fully furnished. Even the _gorgeous_ grand piano in my living room – where I had been composing nonstop for the past few days – had once belonged to Bruce Wayne; I'd been delighted to discover it was perfectly in tune, if dusty and rarely used. I wonder if he'd known how to play, or if it's just another item rich people are expected to own, like decanters of expensive liquor and limousines.

Dumping my plate in the sink on top of the dozens of others piled there, I shuffle my way back to my bedroom to shower and change clothes – _when's the last time I did laundry?_

The sheet I have thrown over the bathroom mirror has once again fallen away, and I scowl at my reflection – limp blonde hair cut to the shoulder blades and dark circles under darker eyes; a ghostly pale face marred by a deep, curving scar along the left cheekbone – before readjusting it. Every mirror in the penthouse has been covered similarly. I don't need any more reminders of Those Months feeding my steadily-worsening nightmares, and that's all my scarred body is – a giant freaking blast from the past.

I am jarred suddenly from my dark musings by the shrill chiming of my cell phone – a rarely-used device that's always kept plugged into a charger next to my rarely-used bed.

I had never owned one before I moved into the penthouse, apparently with good reason, because despite how infrequently I use it, it still serves as an annoying tether to the outside world. With a frown, I shuffle over and answer the blaring intrusion into my solitude.

"What?" I attempt to rub away the soreness in my shoulders without much success. I can afford to be rude; there's only four people that have this number and all of them know to expect this of me.

To my surprise, it's Commissioner Gordon's voice that answers. He's the only one that's never called before. "Good to hear from you too, Maestro," he says, his tone much lighter than it had been during Bane's occupation, but still touched with twinges of exhaustion. I can say any number of unpleasant things about the commissioner, but I can't deny that he works harder than anyone else I know.

"What do you want?" I respond, already annoyed.

There's a shuffle of paperwork and the muffled sounds of ringing phones in the background; apparently he's calling from the station. "Scout's psychiatrist just called; she didn't show up for her appointment this morning."

I sigh again. After the war, Gordon had assigned her a shrink to help her deal with the trauma of losing her mother and sister. And she's not the only one; Wayne Manor employs three on-call psychiatrists to help the kids cope with their nightmares. "I'm assuming you tried calling her?" I ask, massaging the bridge of my nose.

"Yes. She's not answering, but that's hardly a surprise." It's true. Few people on this earth can reach Scout if she doesn't want to be reached; fortunately I'm one of them.

"And you want me to get her for you." It's not supposed to be a question, and he doesn't waste time by pretending it is.

"She hasn't done this for months. You know I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't concerned."

"But not concerned enough to go after her yourself, right?" I can't resist the comment; my seclusion has all but disintegrated what little filter I ever had.

His voice goes quiet. "You know that's not fair, Maestro." And I do. I had originally been skeptical of his devotion to look after her in the first few weeks after the occupation, but I've never been more wrong in my life. Gordon has been better than his word on his promise to Stitches, Scout's older sister who was murdered during the war, and has thrown himself into his role of caretaker as best he can while simultaneously cleaning up the remaining chaos from those terrible five months. He isn't calling because he can't be bothered; he's calling because he knows I'm the only one who can find her.

I peer out my open doorway into the hall, considering my situation for a moment. If I leave now, I might just be back before my absence is noted. Beside me, Rococo lets out a sneeze, and I scratch his head. "I'll look around. There's only so many places she could be."

"Thank you," he bids, and as I move to close the phone his voice stops me. "And Maestro?"

"What?" I grind out in annoyance, and an almost contemplative silence fills the receiver, as though he's debating on whether or not to say something.

"Just... be careful out there," he states finally, and it's painfully obvious that that wasn't his original thought, but I roll my eyes and choose disregard it. I don't have the time or patience for this.

"Yeah," I respond, before hanging up without another word. I've never been one for casual conversation, particularly not with him. I slide the phone into my pocket, put on my boots, and grab my messenger bag, before making my way back to the kitchen. After scrawling a brief note and sticking it to the fridge, I head downstairs to where the elevator is located.

Part of me is uncomfortable with the idea of leaving my solitude without my mask, but it's nothing more than an ingrained, routine emotion that I never act on. I haven't worn the mask since... well. Just _since_.

The button lights up as I press it. Even after months of living here, _this_ is still the most bizarre part – a functional elevator in the place of a front door. After a moment, the panels slide open with a ding and a hiss, and I step inside, cringing at the muzak that plays nonstop in the compartment.

I descend once more into the city.

**~DK~**

It's early July and incredibly warm outside, but every time I leave my penthouse I still expect to be able to see my breath, still expect my fingers to tingle and turn bright red, still expect to feel the biting chill of winter and terrible loss through my duster. I still wake up shivering, even though the thermostat is always kept in the seventies.

It's been eighteen months.

Eighteen months, since the Batman returned and Bane was destroyed and my city was restored. It's still rebuilding in some places, but for the most part Gothamites have settled back into their routines. Those who were orphaned during the takeover have taken up residence in Wayne Manor, Savvy and Jazz are sharing a little apartment in the Narrows and leading The Young in their war on crime, and Scout is living comfortably with Commissioner Gordon.

I'm twenty-one, attempting to cope with PTSD, and have somehow managed to become a grouchy, manic recluse. And the longer I hide away in the relative safety of my penthouse, the harder and harder it is to leave. Today I force myself, because I know where Scout is, and in many ways I'm the only one who can help her.

Grayson's Gym isn't like the polished gymnastics centers closer to the middle of the city, with their spacious rooms and gleaming equipment; it's ancient, and small, and smells overwhelmingly of chalk. It had once been a small distribution center, and now only half the building belongs to Grayson's. On the other side is a sketchy bail bonds office and a fortune teller's shop that's closed four days a week.

The rusted metal steps creak as I enter a lobby paved with cracked, yellowed tile, an odd red or blue square thrown in here and there for variety. To my right is an open office area, staffed by a single receptionist in her mid-forties, focused intently on her phone conversation. Behind her are racks and racks of multicolored leotards for the after-school and daycare programs that come here for tumbling during the weekdays.

She doesn't even glance up as I walk by, which is perfect, because the staring gets annoying after about five seconds. One of the many side effects of having a four-inch gash in your face, I suppose.

The hall opens up into a massive room with padded, frayed blue carpeting and a high ceiling. The wall at my right is lined with mirrors, and above that dusty trophies are displayed from various competitions that Grayson's used to participate in once upon a time. Trampolines, high bars and low bars, balance beams, and a climbing rope are situated haphazardly on this side of the room, and dented metal trays laden with white dust are interspersed randomly throughout. At the back, the large garage doors – currently open wide since the A/C is on the fritz again – face a line of railroad tracks. The whole building has been known to shake whenever a train rumbles by.

And to my left is a long trampoline, spanning the entire length of the wall and leading to a foam mat about five feet thick, where Scout is currently executing a perfect series of flips and spins. The old trampoline creaks with age, but holds her weight easily as she twists her body completely upside down and spins vertically, before landing in a heap on the cushion.

I applaud, because she's amazing and alive, and her head snaps in my direction immediately, her expression one of instinctive alarm. When she spots me, her pretty face relaxes into a smile, and she crawls off the mat.

"Maestro!" she calls, waving a chalk-covered hand. She's red-faced and sweaty, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a falling ponytail, and above her purple camisole winks her sister's necklace. I avert my gaze before she can notice me staring at it. "I haven't seen you in forever!" she continues, eyes bright for what I can tell is the first time in weeks. It's actually only been about a month since we've seen each other, due to... _interesting_ circumstances, but in Scout-time that _is_ forever, so I don't correct her.

I survey her. There was a time when she would have hugged me immediately, dusted me with chalk and then grinned sheepishly as she realized what she'd done. But everything has changed, and the little girl Scout used to be is lost. Now, she's fourteen, about to enter high school, and is apparently ditching her psychiatrist, which, as Gordon pointed out earlier, she hasn't done in a year.

"Gordon called," I state, perhaps unnecessarily.

She blinks. "And you came?"

That stings, possibly more than it should, even though I know she doesn't mean it that way.

"He was worried about you. I'm guessing you haven't told him about this place?" Her sheepish silence is all the confirmation I need. I give her a soft smile.

"Ice cream?" I suggest, despite how early it is, because we've been here before and it seemed to help her then, and sure enough her face splits into a bright, youthful grin. _There's the Scout I used to know._

"Ice cream," she agrees happily, heading to the bathroom to change, and for a moment I can pretend we're both gonna be okay.

Just for a moment.

**~DK~**

She gets two scoops of peaches and cream on a cone, because she's a weirdo, and when I tell her so she makes a face at me.

"Just because you hate delicious things doesn't mean the rest of us have to," she says as I mock-scowl at her and dig out a chunk of cookie dough from my own (superior) ice cream, which is in a cup because I am a sensible human being.

"Practically everything in my fridge is peach-flavored right now. I'm sick of it," I respond bitterly.

She laughs, long and loud, and I continue to frown even though the sound is a relief. "At least now you can stop buying it."

"You have no idea how grateful I am for that."

She takes another bite of her cone and watches me, head cocked. "So how is... everything?"

I shrug. "It's not much different, really. I mean, this week was rough, but I was ready for it."

Scout's smile changes slightly, fades. "How was the hospital?" She's had an overwhelming fear of them since her mother was murdered in Gotham General; she won't even go near one.

"It was fine, it all went smoothly. Managed to get out before they started asking questions."

There's a moment of silence where Scout simply stares at her ice cream as though it has suddenly become the most interesting confection in the the entire world. I drum my fingers on the table beside her.

"Scout... you know I'm not mad at you, right? You did the right thing." I realize then that my lack of communication for the past month – which was in no way purposeful – must have hurt her. She looks up at me pleadingly.

"I didn't know what else to do, Maestro. I didn't mean to make everything harder on you."

"Scout, I'm fine. This has been good for me, honestly." Her eyes widen in surprise, and I smile. "I'm _serious_, kid. I needed a reason to keep going, you know? This helped. I'm gonna be okay, and I'm not angry, alright?"

She nods, and I move on, inhaling deeply before addressing the matter at hand.

"So..." I begin, drawing out the word, and she squirms under my measuring gaze, "why'd you bail on the shrink? You've been doing so well. You told me last month that Gordon thought you were nearly ready to stop going."

"Just didn't feel up to it today."

"Uh-huh. Spill it, kid. What's wrong?" The ice cream makes my teeth hurt when I take another bite, and now it's her turn to scowl.

"Barbara's visiting again."

Ah yes, Gordon's "Ex-Wife From Hell," as Scout so succinctly put it last time the woman visited. From what I understand, she gets along well with his kids, but their mother is an entirely different story. She's been divorced from the commissioner for a few years now, having taken her children to Metropolis to get away from the dangers of Gotham. I didn't exactly blame her, given that they had all been safely removed from the blast radius of Bane's reactor eighteen months ago.

"What happened this time?" I ask, twirling my spoon between my fingers. Her frown deepens.

"The usual. She won't come out and say that she doesn't like me staying with Jim, but she gives me these _looks_ whenever he's not watching, like she's expecting me to steal all the valuable stuff and run off." She takes a moment to look offended. "If I _wanted_ to do that, I'd have done it ages ago."

I laugh quietly before drawing her back to the point. "Is that all?" There is a moment of silence where she simply stares at a groove in the table, running her nails along it distractedly.

"She keeps trying to get me to tell her my real name."

I freeze, irritating welling in my chest. To those who had been in The Young, real names are intensely personal things. She shared hers with me only once in a moment of grief over the death of her sister, and because it isn't my secret to tell, I'll take it to my grave. As far as I know, she hasn't even told Gordon.

"Seriously?" I ask, and she nods.

"Yeah. She's always dropping these stupid little remarks that aren't even _subtle_ – "

I stop her before she can get too worked up. "Have you tried talking to Gordon about it?" Despite the fact that he and my former spy are now on a first name basis with one another, I refuse to follow the pattern; it's just too weird. I'm pretty sure even his parents called him "commissioner."

Scout still doesn't meet my eyes. There's something in the set of her shoulders for a moment that makes me wonder what she isn't telling me. "He's been really busy lately, Maestro, and he's really glad to see her and the kids. I just try to stay out of the way until they leave. It worked last time."

I don't really know what to say. "Is that why you didn't go to the appointment today? Did something happen this morning?"

"Yeah, Hurricane Barbara caught Jim before he left for work and dragged him into the kitchen to talk. They didn't know I was listening." She blushes, and I give her a reproachful glance that's slightly tempered by the smile on my face. _Old habits die hard, I suppose._

"What did she want?"

"Basically to give him a list of all the reasons I shouldn't be living with him. 'She probably has family somewhere, it's not fair to you, you hardly know her', and on and on and on. I'm pretty sure she made a whole presentation with cited sources and pie charts. It sounded they've talked about it before," she says, scowling again.

"And? What did he say?"

"Dunno. I left."

I roll my eyes in exasperation. "Well, he was definitely worried about you on the phone this morning, so I don't think he's planning to leave you in a box in the park." When she doesn't even crack a smile, I sigh and lean towards her, bracing my forearms on the table. "Scout, look at me." She does. "Listen, kid. He's not gonna kick you out. You and I both know that. He only sees his family, what is it, once a year? But he's got you all the time. You're _good_ for him. I saw that during the war and I see it now, okay?"

There is something sparkling in her eyes, but she's seen too much to waste tears on something like this. "I'm so _jealous_, Maestro," she whispers, "I'm so jealous because right now he's got this perfect family that doesn't need me in it and my whole family's _dead_ and I just can't... I can't lose him. It would kill me."

"You won't," I say with certainty, "it would probably kill him too."

She huffs out a shaky, partially-skeptical laugh and blinks away the water in her eyes, before giving me an uncertain smile. I take this to mean she wants to drop the subject and respect her wish.

"Come on," I say, rising to my feet and tossing my garbage in a trash can nearby, "you need to get home and so do I."

She cocks her head at me but doesn't comment, instead chucking the last of her cone and following me to where my motorcycle is parked at the curb in front of the ice cream parlor. It's an old, battered thing that I'd confiscated during the occupation. It had belonged to one of Bane's Goons, who is, due to a Certain Deal I'd made with a Certain Someone, no longer in full possession of his sanity. She snorts at it in the same the way she had when she saw it at Grayson's.

"I still can't believe you kept this thing. Did you take it to the hospital?" she asks, knowing it's a stupid question, and I raise an eyebrow at her.

"I told you, I hailed a cab."

"_That_ must have been interesting."

"You have no idea. Now come on." I move to hand her a helmet, but she doesn't take it, her eyes straying to the bike. There's a war on her face, about what I can't hope to guess, and I choose to remain silent and let her deal with it privately.

"There's something I need to tell you," she says after a moment, her eyes finally meeting mine, and a certain determined glint flashes there, one I haven't seen for almost eighteen months. It's the look she gets when there's secret information to be divulged, and I motion for her to continue. "I should have done it before. There's a reason Jim's been so busy lately."

I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at the tone of her voice, hushed and urgent, and it's triggering memories of whispered secrets in a frozen warehouse, secrets that unravel deadly plots and supply chances at freedom. "Well?" I snap impatiently, "Spit it out."

"About two weeks ago, the phone rang in the middle of the night. It woke me up first, but those kinds of calls are always for Jim so I let him get it. He didn't know I was awake, and I couldn't help it. I snuck down to listen to what he was saying."

"And?"

"There was a mass breakout at Arkham. Lots of people escaped."

Immediately the blood turns to ice in my veins and I curse, tearing my fingers through my hair and pacing away. _Two whole weeks. _I scramble toweigh the facts. _If he was free he'd have come for me by now but he doesn't know where I am surely I'd have heard if he was out I'm not ready to see him again he doesn't know he can't know I'm not _ready_ – _

"Maestro!" Scout's voice cuts through my panic and I turn to her sharply, trying to breathe. "He's still there. He didn't even try to escape. That was the first question Jim asked."

It takes everything I have not to sink to the ground in relief, despite my confusion. It doesn't make sense that he wouldn't jump at the chance to get out, but right now I have more pressing problems.

"Why haven't we heard about this? Why does no one know?"

"The mayor doesn't want an uproar so soon after Bane. It's bad for the polls, so he's keeping it quiet." The derision in her voice is unmistakable, and it's a sentiment I share. Mayor Hamilton Hill has always seemed sketchy to me; I've never gotten the same "idealist" vibe from him that I'd gotten from the late Mayor Garcia.

I realize this is what the commissioner must have wanted to tell me earlier this morning; he'd wanted to warn me that it wasn't safe on the streets. So why hadn't he? "Why didn't you say something sooner?" I demand.

She shifts on her feet. "Jim caught me listening. He told me I couldn't tell anyone, not even you."

I scowl at this but choose not to comment. "Do you know who _did_ escape?" I ask, and Scout shakes her head.

"No. But... it's bad, Maestro. He's really worried."

I resume pacing, dragging my hands through my hair once, twice, three times. "You need to tell Savvy and Jazz."

While no longer an active member of The Young, Scout occasionally slips information she manages to pick up from Gordon to my former lieutenants. "I'm not sure, Maestro," she says hesitantly, "He made me swear that I would keep it quiet. He can handle it."

I realize this must feel like a serious breech of trust for her and refuse to feel guilty about it. The commissioner should have known better than to make her keep it from me, anyway. I level her with a stare I haven't used in a long time. "Scout, he can protect most of Gotham from the people who escaped the asylum, but he can't protect The Young. They're vigilantes and they go out of their way to break the rules. They _need_ to know. And if you don't tell them, I will."

After a moment, she nods her assent, and I motion back towards the bike. "Come on. Now I really have to get you back home."

**~DK~**

The Ex-Wife from Hell greets us at the door, the picture of motherly concern. I catch Scout's grimace as she removes her helmet, but Barbara doesn't and gives her a smile. It's just that, a smile. There's nothing to it; it's genuine but flat, holding none of the deeper emotions that come with smiling at someone you care for.

"Hello honey. Is everything alright? Jim told me you missed your appointment," she says, and Scout nods but offers her no explanation. Instead, she turns back to me, giving me a brief, tense hug – the kind of hug you give people when you're no longer comfortable with physical contact. Something wrenches in my chest.

"Thanks for the ice cream," she bids, and then slides away, edging around Barbara to head inside.

"Remember what I said, Scout. Don't forget to say hello to the happy couple for me," I call after her.

She catches my meaning easily, nods again, and then disappears inside. Barbara watches us warily, as though expecting us both to be a part of some terrible conspiracy against her ex-husband. I give her a single, measuring glance and turn away. Nothing about her is worth my time.

"You're the Maestro, aren't you?"

I stiffen briefly as she addresses me, but I don't bother to turn around. "The one and only," I respond, tossing a leg over my bike.

"How long have you known Scout?" she presses, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Almost two years. Not that it's any of your business, Mrs. Gordon."

"It's Lewis now," she corrects, seeming surprised at my rudeness. It seems no one has thought to warn her about me. "Does she have any family anywhere? Is there someone who can care for her?"

Anger simmers with ease through my veins, despite how long the emotion has lain dormant. "That's what she has Gordon for. If you want her out of here so badly, I suggest you take it up with him."

Taken aback, she blinks. "I'm not saying I want her out of – "

"No, you aren't saying it, but that _is_ what you want, so if there's an actual point to this conversation I suggest you get to it and stop wasting my time," I snap, angling my body to face her while remaining on my bike. Her eyes linger on the scar on my cheek, and, after the usual initial shock at my directness, she redirects her gaze and crosses her arms.

"Fine. I don't like that Jim has a little girl that he just picked up off the street living with him. I don't think it's a good idea."

_As if she's a stray dog... _The way this woman is talking about Scout makes me angry in a way that I haven't been in a very long time.

"That's not really your problem anymore, is it, Mrs. _Lewis_?" I all but sneer her last name. "Scout cares about your ex-husband very much. And he cares about her, whether you like it or not."

"Jim told me about what happened with her mother, and this is all very good of him, but she should be in a real home, with someone who can give her the parental support she needs," she says, and I cock my head at her, studying her frame.

"And you think he can't do that." It isn't a question. "That's why you left Gotham, isn't it? Because he was so busy protecting his city that he didn't protect his family." I aim the words at her like a weapon, and she turns red.

"That's hardly your business, but if you must know, yes, that was one of the reasons."

I think of the story Scout told me about how Harvey Dent had threatened her children, how he'd aimed a gun inches from her son's head and flipped a coin to determine his fate.

"Mrs. Lewis, I'll be honest with you. I don't like your ex-husband. But he's a hard worker, and maybe even a good man, and that's _rare_. And maybe you left Gotham to protect your children and maybe you were right to, but I also think you did them a disservice, because they won't ever know the things he did to save an entire city, the lengths he went to to protect millions of people who would never thank him for it. And Scout deserves to know what it's like to have a halfway decent male figure in her life."

Barbara is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is carefully controlled. "What should I have done? Stayed here while a terrorist tried to kill us all? You'll never understand. I did what I did to protect my children."

I give her a sardonic smile. "Really? What's that like?"

She studies me, but doesn't respond. I sigh. "Did you ever stop to consider that the commissioner might have been _lonely_? Or that Scout could maybe alleviate that loneliness? That maybe they're two people recovering from a _war_ and that they could help each other heal from it?"

She blusters. "_We're_ his family! _We're_ supposed to help him heal!" And there it is. The guilt. It's plain as day across her face: remorse for not being there, for being unable to reach him when he would have needed it most.

"She's his family now, too. And she's not going anywhere, so I suggest you get used to the idea." I turn back towards the handlebars of my bike, before sliding the helmet on over my head. The engine starts with a cough and a stuttering growl, and I turn back to her, letting my gaze lock with hers.

"And by the way, her name is Scout. It's the only one you need to know, so stop putting your nose where it doesn't belong."

I flip my visor down and press the gas, speeding away from the house without a backwards glance.

**~DK~**

(For all her rumored paranoia, the girl on the bike doesn't see the dark van idling at the corner, or the two people inside who watch intently as she disappears down the street.

"Is it time?" asks one.

A blink, a twitch of a grin that's not quite balanced. "Not yet," replies the other, drumming a hand against the tattered leather interior of the car, "boss says not yet. We wait."

And they do. The girl returns home to her secrets and her solitude, and they wait.)

**A/N: And here... we... go. Mwahahaha. So good to be here, my darlings, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed! Are you confused? You're supposed to be. Flood my inbox with your questions; let me know you're interested! No blue-eyed dual-personality psychiatrist yet, but patience is a virtue, and so on. **

**I only own Maestro and the OCs. Anything beyond that is the property of DC Comics. The recommended song for this chapter (for the story, really) is "We Fall Apart" by We As Human. **

**Special thanks to my beautiful beta, **Amai-chan1993**, who was good enough to join us for round two of the madness! **

**Please review and tell me if you want more! Your thoughts feed the muse, who is currently cackling and telling me I'll never finish this. I'd like to prove her (it?) wrong. **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	2. Chapter II

_The Way We Fall_

_Come on out and find me  
__Find me, find me  
__Pressure's on now._

– "_Find Me", Christina Grimmie. _

_Chapter II_

Jonathan Crane does not get visitors.

He prefers it this way, and so do the guards, who are quite content to deal with him as little as possible. This isn't unusual for the patients in the secure wing of Arkham Asylum, but even the orderlies, nurses, and the occasional psychiatrist or two give his cell a wide berth, interacting with him only when necessary. There's something about his eyes, they all agree, something that gleams with predatory watchfulness, waiting to strike at the first opportune moment.

Except that he never does.

It has been over a month since the _incident_ when half the patients in the asylum escaped, and he has not made a single attempt at joining them. Instead, he keeps to the few books he has been allowed and lets himself be guided around the facility without any kind of fuss at all.

That's why it comes as such a surprise when, on a dreary Wednesday afternoon, a handsome young man with dark blue eyes steps up to the receptionist's desk and asks to speak with the former psychiatrist.

"Jonathan Crane?" the secretary verifies timidly, and the visitor nods a bit sheepishly, as though he knows what an unconventional request it is. She hesitantly pages a dark-skinned young nurse, who smiles at him warmly as she enters the lobby.

"I'm Jane Parker, I work in the secure wing," she says as they shake hands, and the man returns her smile with a weary one of his own. There is a certain anxiety in his frame; he shifts from foot to foot as though remaining still physically pains him.

"John Blake," he announces softly, "I'd like to speak with Jonathan Crane, if it's not too much trouble."

She smiles again, mildly curious. "None at all. If you'll just sign in and follow me?" The nurse points to a clipboard on the secretary's desk, and John Blake nods before picking up the pen.

"Is he your friend?" she asks – somewhat dubiously – as a pair of guards pat him down; the asylum is taking no chances after the breakout. John gives her another smile, less tired and more strained, more... urgent?

"Not exactly. I'm just here to ask a few questions."

The way he says this suggests that they _do_ have a history, but it's not an amiable one, and the young nurse is even more curious than before but doesn't press for details as she leads him down a long, white hallway.

"Miss Parker – "

"Jane, please," she corrects, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. It's hardly professional, but she can't help but notice how attractive he is, despite the world-weary look in his eyes.

"Jane. How has he been since he was admitted?" John asks, and she bites her lip in thought.

"Quiet. He doesn't talk in therapy, group or one-on-one – though that's hardly a surprise, he's the one who came up with the formula of questions they use in those sessions." There's a note of hushed reverence in her voice. The staff may not like him, but they can all accept that he's a brilliant man – formerly one of the best in his field.

"I see," replies John, unimpressed, "and the, um... the Scarecrow?" He asks the question awkwardly, obviously uneasy about the concept of two separate personalities sharing the same mind.

"He hasn't made an appearance since Jonathan arrived. Most of the doctors think it's because of the treatment and environment," she responds, but she can't keep the doubt from her tone. He calls her out on it.

"You don't?"

They stop in front of a long window, set into the wall of the corridor, where a pair of burly guards are stationed. On the other side is a blank grey room with a pair of chairs facing each other, separated by a long metal table; it's not unlike the interrogation rooms at the police station. In one of the chairs sits the infamous Jonathan Crane, staring without interest at the glass between them. Jane suppresses a shiver. The window is only one-way, but she can't shake the unnerving sensation that the former psychiatrist knows they're watching him. Beside her, John seems to shift, seeming almost annoyed at the sight of the man.

"No," Jane remembers to answer, "not really. Call it a gut feeling."

"So what do you think?" he asks, and she fixes her eyes on him with a touch of concern.

"My opinion? He's waiting for something."

They are silent for a moment.

"Do you know of anyone he might have... cared about?" she questions hesitantly, and he stiffens visibly, jaw clenching.

"Why do you ask?" he responds, clearly avoiding her question.

"It's just..." she takes a moment to collect her thoughts, "the Scarecrow has been quiet, yes, but Jonathan himself has had moments of... unrest. The first week or so after he was admitted, the orderlies reported that he'd be up at all hours of the night, pacing and murmuring to himself, and after a while I asked him about it."

"And? What did he say?"

"He didn't really give an explanation, not that I was expecting one. He just asked for something."

"What was it?" John presses.

She returns her gaze to him, frowning thoughtfully. "He wanted classical violin records to play in his cell. He said they helped him think."

At her statement, he goes, if possible, even stiffer, and she wonders if her earlier question about them being friends had been even more off-base than she'd thought.

"Did you get them for him?" he asks tightly.

"Well, yes. Dr. Leland said I had no reason not to since he wasn't causing problems. It was largely trial and error at first. He was – _is_ – extremely picky about the pieces; mostly he prefers Bach. But since then, he's stopped pacing, and he seems more... centered somehow," she finishes, looking intently through the window at the man in question, wishing this might provide further insight into his behavior.

"Why would that make you think he cared about someone?" John inquires as he moves toward the door to the right of the window.

"There's only one thing that gets in a man's head that way, Mr. Blake." Her answer is wry and spoken through pure amusement.

The way he looks at her makes her think he knows the answer, but he asks anyway as he tugs on the handle. "And what's that?"

She gives a small smile as she turns to go back down the hall. "A woman."

**~DK~**

Crane's eyes fix on him the moment he enters the room, but he doesn't speak and neither does John. For a moment, the pair just survey each other, contempt crackling like a bonfire between them.

"Dr. Crane," John finally greets, breaking the heavy silence, and Crane levels him with a chilling stare.

"What do you want?" There's no malice in the question; he sounds almost bored.

John folds his hands on the table in front of him. The urgency that drove him here is pounding with full force in his chest now as he is faced with the only man who may be able to help him, but the trick lies in discovering whether or not he'd had anything to do with it in the first place. Before he can speak, however, Crane beats him to it, the expression on his face clearly advertising he'd like to get this over with.

"If you're here because the police _still_ haven't found any leads on the whereabouts of the missing inmates, then I'm afraid you're wasting your time. I don't know where they went or what they wanted; I never cared enough to ask."

John shakes his head. "That's not why I'm here. Not a cop anymore, remember?"

A spark of confusion gleams behind Crane's glasses, but it's quickly concealed once again by disinterest. "Then I'll ask again. What do you want?"

John watches him carefully, trying to keep his hands from fidgeting, from showing his anxiety. "It's Maestro."

As though someone has flipped a switch, all traces of boredom are immediately gone from Crane's face and posture. He sits up slowly, icy eyes glinting with sharp, predatory attention, attempting to find and unearth the answers he's looking for before John reveals them.

"What about her?" The question is simple, but it's asked in a way that suggests he wants a detailed response, and he wants it _now_.

"Has she contacted you at all since you were admitted?" John asks, trying to see if he _knows_, if he has any idea what's going on.

"No," Crane states impatiently. There is nothing to suggest this fact annoys or angers him, it's just that, a fact, and John still can't fathom the connection that is supposedly between this man and the young woman he'd grown to call his friend. If he genuinely cared about her, wouldn't he care that she wasn't contacting him? And why _wouldn't_ she? His surprise must have shown on his face, because the ex-psychiatrist looks somewhat amused.

"Letters and phone calls detailing her undying affection aren't really her style," he states dryly, and there's something smug about the way he stresses "affection" – his satisfaction over winning the Maestro when he'd known how much John had cared for her is nearly palpable. Crane gives him a searching, mocking glance. "You're not _still_ pining away for her, are you?"

"She's missing, Crane," Blake snaps, burying his resentment deep and trying not to enjoy the way the condescension slides off the older man's face.

"What do you mean?" The impatience is back again, and the controlled edge to his voice is so sharp Blake knows immediately that it's legitimate – he'd honestly had no idea.

"I mean she's gone. Dropped completely off the radar. We think she's in danger."

The ice in his eyes has hardened significantly now. "What makes you think that?"

"Scout spoke with her on the phone three days ago, they'd made plans to meet yesterday. When Maestro didn't show, Scout went looking for her. Her apartment was a mess – there were obvious signs of a struggle and lots of blood. Maestro was gone," John responds, his throat tight with worry. Despite how they had last parted, she was still his friend and he still... well.

"Why are you telling me this?" Crane asks, breaking through his thoughts, "As I said, she hasn't contacted me, you're likely more informed on her life than I am."

John takes a bracing inhale. "We think you can help us find her." Silence greets his admission, and he scrambles to continue. "If you cooperate, I can see about getting you released sooner. We – "

"You haven't answered my question. Why not let the police handle it?" Crane asks, studying him, "She's only been missing for three days at the most; this is hardly urgent enough for you to take such drastic measures." He holds up his cuffed hands for emphasis.

John sighs heavily. "Because Maestro was never cleared of her charges from before the occupation. She's still technically a fugitive from the law, and the fact that she didn't come forward to explain her actions during the war didn't help. There can't be an official investigation into her disappearance because no one is supposed to know where she is. The Mayor gave the commissioner explicit instructions to arrest her on sight. She's not leading The Young anymore, but he either doesn't know that or doesn't care."

Crane takes a moment to digest this information. "So the commissioner is turning a blind eye to her predicament? That's not like him." The words are meant to be snide, but the calculating, far-off gleam in his gaze dulls the effect somewhat.

"Commissioner Gordon is the one who sent me."

This seems to surprise him. "What do you mean?"

John gives him a heavy stare. "He can't do anything officially, but I'm not on the force. He asked me to come. You know her pretty well," he admits grudgingly, "and right now she needs you to help her."

Crane opens his mouth to respond, but John cuts him off. "And you're _gonna_ help her, because if you don't, I will dedicate my immediate future to destroying yours." The reasoning behind his vehemence isn't lost on either of them; they both know how hard he once fought for her.

The silence that falls in the room is thick and stretched taut like a wire, and Crane just watches him, utterly unaffected by his statement. After a moment, he idly reaches up to remove his glasses, folding them neatly before placing them in the breast pocket of his garish orange jumpsuit – the standard uniform for all patients in the asylum.

"What is it you're expecting me to do?"

"So you'll help?" John is audibly relieved, and Crane's gaze narrows in on him sharply.

"For a price."

"Of course," John says, a bit sardonically, "there's always a price."

"You're the one that keeps coming to me. I want a full year off my sentence."

John glances at him, surprised. _Just a year?_ Crane hasn't even served a full two yet – he'd expected the cost to be steeper. The fact that it isn't makes him suspicious. "I'll see what I can do. Right now, I need you to tell me anything you know. Did she ever mention anything about anyone who would have wanted to hurt her?"

Crane gives him a vaguely disgusted look. "She was leading a rebellion of teenage miscreants at the time. _Everyone_ wanted to hurt her."

"What about someone from her past?"

"No," comes the bored response, and John sighs, wondering if this had even been worth it, before a memory springs unbidden into his mind and he glances up sharply.

"What about someone trying to get to you?"

"What?" The question seems to have thrown him, though John isn't sure why.

"The day after you and Maestro went back to her apartment to make your toxin," the former detective murmurs, remembering the rage and fear he'd felt for her, "she came back to her base, covered in bruises. She said you'd both been attacked, and she said they weren't after her. Could this be revenge-based?"

Crane fixes him with an indecipherable look. "No. Not from them, at least." There's something chilling about the finality of the statement, about how he knows for certain that it's not a possibility.

"Surely you've got other enemies? Someone else who knew you two were... whatever you are, and wants to get to you?" He almost chokes on the words; they pain him that greatly.

It's probably nothing, but for a moment, just a fleeting fraction of a second, John could swear he sees the barest flicker of _something_ flash over his face, as though the question he just asked is important. Before he can explore it further, however, it's gone, and Crane is speaking again.

"You really are grasping at straws here, aren't you?" the mental patient states, borderline amused, before he sits forward, eyes gleaming. "How badly do you want her back?"

John glares at him, because _he_ should want her back just as badly, _he_ should be affected by the thought of her in trouble, _he_ should want her safe because if Maestro chose him there has to be something redeemable there – but for the life of him he can't find it.

"I'll do anything," he responds, and the condescending smirk that touches Crane's mouth turns his stomach – he knows.

"I need to see her apartment."

John frowns in confusion. "Why?"

"I can't very well do anything from in here. If you want me to find her, I have to see how she's been living. A lot can change about a person in nineteen months," Crane responds, and there's no way to tell what he's thinking. At John's silence, he continues. "I'm not going to be able to tell you anything that will lead you to her. Not from in here."

John is still hesitant. There's something not right about the whole scenario, a bigger piece of the puzzle he's missing. Crane is being too cooperative. Still, if it would get Maestro back, if it meant she was _safe_...

He stands and heads for the door, already reaching for his phone.

"I'll call Gordon."

**~DK~**

Light.

Blinding and directly above me.

Buzzing, flickering, yellow.

The creak of a boot on wood.

"Boss, she's awake."

A shadow.

Looming, eerily familiar.

Strange colors, strange noises.

My ears ring. Buzz. Hum.

The shadow shifts.

"Put her back under."

Soft, gravelly, deadly.

_I know that voice..._

A smile? It is an odd one.

A sharp pinch in my arm.

A chuckle.

Darkness.

**~DK~**

The commissioner is waiting for them at the gates, and Crane puts incredible effort into keeping the disgust from showing on his face.

It had taken nearly an hour of bargaining, but according to Blake, the commissioner had somehow managed to convince the director of the asylum to temporarily release him, in order to "assist in a police investigation." From what he understands, details haven't been given, but the director has apparently been lead to believe Crane is helping locate the missing inmates. Because of this, this little _outing_ is to be kept completely confidential.

Beside him, John shifts anxiously as they enter Gordon's car. It's clear that neither man is comfortable with lying this way, but their devotion to saving Maestro wins out in the end.

He would consider it pathetic if it hadn't worked out so well in his favor. Now he just finds it all serendipitous. Of course, there is the small matter of the woman that belongs to him being missing and very likely in danger – he can't really say he's surprised; she's always been jeopardy-friendly – but he plans to take care of that in short order.

And as these plans swirl in the back of his mind, a space normally occupied by his now-silent other half, the car pulls away from the asylum where he's been penned like an animal for nineteen months. He's been given a pair of his old slacks and a white-button up to wear; he's not completely comfortable without the full ensemble, but it's better than the orange jumpsuit, at any rate.

The ride is awkward, to say the least; no one dares to talk. From the backseat, he watches his two escorts carefully. There is a certain tension between them, one he can't quite put his finger on. It goes deeper than their missing mutual... he supposes "friend" would be the word; it's as though something has been building up for a very long time and Maestro's disappearance is just icing on the cake.

A sudden thought occurs to him, and he peers casually out the window at this right. "I was under the impression the Arkham fiasco wasn't public knowledge. How is it that you know about it?" he directs the question at Blake, who quickly glances at Gordon. A silent exchange passes between them, and Crane just waits.

"I work with the kids at Wayne Manor now," the former detective finally replies, "the commissioner wanted to keep me in the loop in case there was trouble down that way."

It's a lie if he's ever heard one, but instead of pressing, he asks, "Did she know?"

None of them have to ask who he's talking about. "Probably," Gordon says, speaking for the first time since they'd left the gates of the asylum, "there's not much that happens in this town that she doesn't know about, even if she isn't leading The Young anymore. Why, do you think it's related?"

Crane sits back. "Anything's possible. Even if she didn't have any enemies among the inmates when they first escaped, she could easily have made a few, given her... _cheery_ disposition." The sarcasm in his voice is hard to miss, and Blake aims a glare at him but doesn't bother denying it.

"It's unlikely," Gordon responds, "Scout tells me she hardly ever leaves her apartment anymore. They met for ice cream a month ago, but that's the last time anyone saw her in person."

Crane is mildly surprised by this, but he supposes it makes sense. She'd always been reclusive, and given the stress of the occupation combined with losing the Bat – he internally sneers – and likely letting whatever psychological damage she'd had go untreated, it isn't surprising she's withdrawn permanently into her solitude.

There is a lengthy silence as they come to an intersection, and Crane fully expects them to turn deeper into the slums where Maestro's apartment is located. Instead, they go straight into downtown Gotham. He furrows his brow, and the action isn't lost on Blake, who has apparently been studying him in the rearview mirror.

"She moved," he offers by way of explanation, sounding almost amused, and Crane doesn't respond. It's almost impossible to picture her living anywhere besides the sanctuary she had spent so much time creating, where she had clearly lived in safety for years. There aren't as many abandoned buildings downtown; had she found a way to pay rent?

He's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice they've stopped until the engine quits and his two escorts step out. Surprised, he follows suit, gazing up at the massive structure that looms above them.

He recognizes it immediately; anyone with half a brain in this city would.

"This is Bruce Wayne's building," he states unnecessarily as they enter the gleaming lobby, pinning Blake with a stare in an attempt to figure out what's going on, "What are we doing here?"

"I told you," the insufferable former detective grins, "she moved."

His retort is cut off by the chiming of the commissioner's phone, and the older man turns away to take the call. Crane focuses back on Blake, nodding towards the finery all around them – elegant fountains, multicolored marble, and a crystal chandelier. "There's no way she could afford this, not even if she rejoined society as an upstanding citizen with a decent job. What are you playing at?"

"Bruce Wayne used to fund the Boy's Home where I grew up," Blake explains, and the somber note in his voice catches Crane's attention immediately, because there's no way he would just _give_ that kind of information away, "he was a friend. When he died, he left me his penthouse, paid in full. I gave it to Maestro. She needed it more than I did."

Crane studies him. There's a lie there, but it's complicated, and he has more urgent matters to deal with. "How very altruistic of you," he drawls instead of pressing, which seems to surprise the ex-detective. Before he can respond, however, they are interrupted by Gordon once again entering the conversation.

"Scout's gone. She's going to try to find Maestro," he tells Blake, who swears softly.

"How do you know?"

Gordon runs a hand through his hair. "I usually have a neighbor check in on her while I'm out during the day. She found the note Scout left."

"She'll go straight to The Young," Blake murmurs. The commissioner nods gravely.

"And they'll tear the city apart to find her."

Crane watches the exchange quietly, reveling in the fear and desperation he can sense rolling off the two men in waves. This is working out better than he'd thought.

"You focus on finding The Young and Scout, Gordon. Run damage control, keep it quiet. I'll handle this," Blake suggests as he nods towards Crane, who merely cocks an eyebrow. The older man hesitates.

"You're running out of time, _commissioner_," Crane murmurs coolly, "think of what could happen if one of those crazies got their hands on your pet."

The man glares at him, but doesn't refute his point. Instead he looks to Blake. "Call me if you find out anything. I'll take him back to Arkham when you're done."

Blake nods, and Gordon exits hastily, half-jogging out the door. His devotion to that little brat is almost comically obvious; she's likely the reason he's so concerned with finding Maestro.

"Come on," Blake murmurs, heading towards an elevator at the back of the lobby. The pair enter, the buttons for fifteen floors glowing brightly along the wall. Instead of pressing one, Blake withdraws a silver key from his pocket and turns it in a lock on the panel – the only way access to Wayne's penthouse at the top of the building.

"Who has keys to her floor?" Crane questions as they ascend, annoyed with the idea of her giving this _boy_ a way into her personal hideout.

Blake shifts on his feet, a definite sign of his anxiety. "Aside from her? Just Scout – this is her key – and the management, whose key went mysteriously missing a few days ago."

"But no one saw anything." It isn't a question, but Blake shakes his head just the same. The safest in Gotham are those who are blind, deaf, and fond of conveniently-timed smoke breaks, and they both know it.

The muzak that plays overhead is grating on his nerves; Maestro probably had a conniption fit every time she stepped into the compartment. He's grateful when the elevator slides into a halt and the doors ease open, the pair of them stepping out into a massive room that apparently serves as a parlor. It's immediately obvious that it's _supposed_ to be a ballroom: panoramic windows line every wall and ornate marble decorates the floor, while two golden chandeliers dangle brightly from the ceiling. State-of-the-art furniture is interspersed functionally throughout the space, and there's a minibar at the far end. Beyond the glass doors to his right is a helipad, and he makes a concentrated effort to avoid rolling his eyes at the extravagance of it all.

"Careful," Blake warns, and Crane looks down in time to avoid stepping in a rust-colored stain on the shaggy rug by his shoes. It's about the size of his hand, and a second glance around the room tells him this is where the struggle happened. _She must have heard someone enter and met them here._

Furniture in the immediate vicinity has been knocked askew, and the table at his right has been overturned, glassware and a lamp lying shattered on the ground. Blood coats all of this as though it had rained from the ceiling, but he doubts all of it is hers. She's always been a fighter, and she's always fought dirty. If they took her, they had wounds of their own, no question.

Blake seems to have the same thought. "Gordon ran a few tests. We've gotten at least three different DNA samples other than Maestro's. They wore gloves, so no fingerprints, but I don't think they counted on her fighting back the way she did. We didn't get any matches, though."

"What about her dog?" Crane asks offhandedly as he steps further into the room, turning in a slow three-sixty as he takes everything in. Blake hasn't stopped watching him since they arrived, having examined all of this already.

"He was beaten pretty badly. Scout found him here and took him to the vet."

"Sadism."

"What?"

"If getting the dog out of the way had been a concern, a gun would have been just as effective. The beating was deliberate," Crane remarks absently, his eyes lighting on a door by the minibar. Blake follows his gaze and shakes his head.

"Stairs to the lobby, in case of emergency. Locked from the inside, not tampered with. Didn't look like it was used much."

Crane nods. "Where's her room?"

"This way." Blake leads him quickly down a hall beside the door, shoulders tense with unease. They pass a single bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette, all unused, before coming to another room only slightly smaller than the first, decorated just as lavishly but without the carnage. There's a dining table here, and a set of winding stairs in front of more panoramic windows that open up to a large sundeck. Blake ignores all of this and heads up the steps to the second floor, Crane close behind.

"Even if she wasn't paying rent, she would have needed food and other provisions. Where was she getting the money?" he asks. Before the occupation, it had been his understanding that she had stolen and conned to get cash, but that could hardly be the case if she had become a recluse.

"Scout told me there was a record company that bought a few of her pieces. I don't really know the details, but apparently she was making good money on royalties," Blake responds as they climb. The top of the stairs dumps them out in an elegant living room, and he can immediately feel the change in the atmosphere. It's lived-in and cluttered, and everything has been shifted around too frequently to gather dust. This is her new music room; the floor-to-ceiling windows at the left are covered with sheet music, compositions, and even playbills, the tables are laden with musical theory textbooks, and her instruments are scattered in loving disarray throughout. In the far corner is a beautiful grand piano, gleaming with an ebony sheen in what little light filters through the obscured windows. More sheet music is piled on top of it, and pens and pencils and discarded wads of paper are dispersed in a thorough radius around the area. He doesn't spot her Stradivarius anywhere, though that's no surprise; it's always been kept in a position of reverence in her room.

Crumpled paper scattering at his feet, he makes his way to the piano, examining the music she'd been playing before she was taken. It's clearly something of her own creation, spidery black notes littering the pages in a way he could never understand. The material is wrinkled and torn in places, as though she'd gripped or scribbled so hard in her concentration she'd forgotten the delicacy of what she was working with. Inky fingerprints stain the ivory keys before him, darker towards the left of the piano as though most of her notes originated there. At the top of the stack of compositions is a single, scrawled word: "_Grace_".

"What does the word 'grace' mean to her?" he asks aloud, leafing through her work and not finding anything else of interest.

Blake, who has been waiting impatiently by the door of the room, looks up at him, a note of accusation in his eyes. "It was her mother's name."

_A tribute, then._ Crane nods and takes another cursory inspection of the room, before turning back to him. "Lead the way."

The man does so, exiting the room and coming to a fork in the hall. He goes left, and then takes another right and proceeds down a long hallway. (Crane understands that the rich, for some reason, feel a need to flaunt their wealth, but he considers the excessiveness of this penthouse largely ridiculous.)

The hall opens up to a large bedroom, which would have been lit naturally by the many windows had every one of them not been covered with a sheet.

He knows immediately that this is her room. The bed is king-sized and unmade, but he doubts she sleeps there, and the whole area has a gloomy, neglected feel to it. On the nightstand rests her Stradivarius, the only thing in the room that isn't gathering dust, and her beloved _Phantom of the Opera_ poster is pinned to the sheets above her headboard. A stack of books that reach his waist rests on the other side of the bed, _The Count of Monte Cristo_ at the top. The other titles range from fantasy to nonfiction, and even, to his immense surprise, a few psychology textbooks.

It strikes him then that she's trying to _learn_. He remembers her hesitance when she'd informed him that she hadn't even made it to high school, the shame she seemed to carry about her lack of education. This is probably her way of trying to make up for it.

"There's something else you should see," Blake murmurs, cutting through the thick, almost mournful silence in the room, and gestures to the far wall.

Crane turns, following the movement, and raises an eyebrow in surprise. There are two doors on the wall to his right, and a third on the wall beside him, but in the space between them are tacked dozens of sheets of paper, covered in a web of strings connecting documents to one another.

He draws closer. Scraps of coarse burlap are attached helter-skelter across the pages, and they don't really seem to have a specific purpose other than random decoration. When he reads the contents of the papers, he lets out a soft laugh. It's _him_. Internet articles and police reports and newspaper headlines, most of them covering his Fear Night, almost ten years ago now, but some covering his more recent involvement in The People's Court of Gotham and his rumored aid in freeing the city. There are other articles too, dating back over a decade from when he was still teaching at Gotham University – he releases a quiet chuckle when he reads the piece about his dismissal for firing a gun in the middle of a lesson.

But some of them aren't about him at all; some of them are pages ripped from her psychology books, sections on Multiple Personality Disorder and other dissociative states, and these have illegible notes scribbled in the margins and are dotted liberally with question marks.

_Trying to figure me out, Songbird? _He smirks and turns back to Blake, who is watching him with an expression that is probably supposed to be impassive, but comes across as disgusted.

Before either of them can speak, however, they are once again interrupted by the high-pitched ringing of a cell phone. Blake gives him a warning look and turns away to answer it. Disinterested, Crane focuses his attention on each of the three doors in the room. One is a walk-in closet, roughly the combined size of the living room and kitchenette in her old apartment, and clothes in various states of disrepair are scattered carelessly throughout.

The next door opens to a massive, gleaming-white bathroom, the mirror covered entirely by a large sheet – he recalls a shattered mirror in her last home as well. The bathtub is really more like a small pond and the shower is big enough for five. Generic, scentless soaps line the shelves, most half-empty, but there are a few bottles towards the back that are name brand, multicolored, and likely reek of fruit – not her style at all. He studies them a moment further before exiting.

The third door is a secondary exit from the bedroom and leads to a hallway, and if he explores further he has no doubt he'll find an equally extravagant kitchen and who knew how many more bedrooms, but instead he studies a door that's slightly ajar directly across from him. Blake is still on the phone, so without waiting he crosses the hall and slips inside.

This room is even darker than hers, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. When they do, he spots another bed, immaculately-made and unused, and he nearly turns to leave when his gaze lands on something in the corner. At this point, not much takes him by surprise, but even he can't keep the shock from his expression when he realizes what it is.

A cradle.

It looks cheap, probably purchased secondhand, and there's a mobile of birds dangling from the headboard over the mattress. He moves closer. A variety of infant toys, diapers, and a pacifier or two litter the rug around the small bed, but there's nothing inside except a stuffed grey rabbit.

"So you found it." Blake's voice makes him turn sharply. There's a deep accusation in his gaze, and Crane sneers at him.

"You might have mentioned this sooner."

"I wanted to see how you'd react. Guess you didn't know about it, then?" Blake snaps back scornfully, fists clenching. It strikes him that this has been the cause of the underlying tension the man has been projecting all day.

"It's not mine, if that's what you're concerned about," Crane responds coolly, the very thought turning his stomach. It's made worse by the realization that if it's not _his_, it must be someone else's, and it sets his veins alight.

The ex-detective gives a disbelieving scoff, but Crane isn't going to waste energy trying to convince him.

"Did Gordon's pet say anything about this?" he asks instead, turning back to the crib, and Blake mutters a negative.

"Gordon asked her about it, but she said she didn't know anything."

"She lied," Crane murmurs, because given what he's heard of her recon skills he knows she'd have worked it out, especially since she was the only one with constant access to his Songbird's life, "What other secrets is she keeping, I wonder?"

"If it isn't yours, then why would she bother to hide it?" Blake counters, ignoring his question. Crane turns his head to look the younger man directly in the eyes.

"Because she knew what I would do to her if I found out."

"You won't lay a finger on her," the boy promises, a cool threat filling his voice as he takes a warning step forward, and Crane simply looks at him before turning away yet again, scanning the area. With some effort, he forces the anger and the confusion down to think over later; there are questions to be asked and this adds an entirely new element to the game.

"Was the phone call of some relevance to our search?" he asks, and he can practically hear Blake's internal struggle over whether or not to press the issue further. Finally, he answers.

"Gordon wanted to remind me to keep an eye on the kids at the Manor for the next few days. We have several former Young there, and he doesn't want them to know she's missing. He's worried about how they'd react."

Crane hums noncommittally, turning back to the boy and studying him intently. "Have you checked her refrigerator?"

Blake blinks. "What?"

Crane scowls and removes his glasses, placing them once more into his breast pocket. "I'm going to need all the information I can if I'm going to find her, including her eating habits and where she buys her food. Check her kitchen and tell me what you find; I need to search her room again."

Blake glares at being ordered around and looks like he wants to argue, but the chance of finding Maestro has utterly blinded him with desperation and he leaves without another word.

_Finally. _

Moving quickly, Crane darts back across the hall to her room and begins to search, earnestly this time. _She would have kept it close, somewhere she could make sure it never saw daylight._

It's times like these – though there have been few – that he would appreciate the Scarecrow's input. Unfortunately, his other half is silent and has been for quite a while, and Crane is on his own.

He searches the closet and comes up empty, the drawers in the room reveal more of the same – a few clothes and personal items, neither of which are what he's looking for. He considers her music room but discards the idea immediately – it's too open, not enough places for concealment. He scans the bedroom urgently, desperately. The boy will be back at any moment, he has to find it and he has to find it _now_ –

His eyes fall on the bed and he curses his own stupidity. Immediately he's there, kneeling in front of her nightstand, and a lift of the bedskirt reveals a ratty cardboard box.

_That's more like it._

Pulling it out, he flips open the lid and stares down at a pile of papers and personal items – pictures, a few odds and ends, one of her masks, and even an obituary clipping about her mother. Disregarding all of this for a moment, he reaches deep inside until he feels what he's been looking for, and a cruel smile spreads across his face.

Carefully, he withdraws the item clenched between his fingers: a small black notebook, detailing years of research on his toxins. And there, encased dead-center of the pages since he last put them there, are a pair of black-capped vials. If she'd been here, he would have kissed her in relief.

He notices a thin, clear tube sticking out of the top of the papers, and he tugs at it, revealing her makeshift toxin dispenser from the occupation, still attached to the holster. It's crude, but undoubtedly effective. This box must be her way of burying her past, burying the war while still keeping it close.

In that moment, Blake's footsteps echo in the hallway behind him, and the plan that clicks into his mind is so instantaneous and perfect that he can't keep the smirk from his features. Quickly, he gets to work.

"Crane," the younger man greets as he enters, sounding annoyed, "her fridge is full of peach-flavored stuff and there are dishes piled in the sink. How does that help?"

Finished with his task, Crane slowly rises to his feet. "It doesn't. But this might." He turns just in time to watch the look of confusion flicker across Blake's expression – only to be replaced with horror once he realizes what's about to happen. Before he can react further, Crane flicks his wrist up, sending a cloud of gas directly into the ex-detective's face.

Immediately he stumbles back, blinking blearily, his breathing elevated and his gaze darting all around. He doesn't scream yet, but Crane isn't surprised – this formula is... _different_. Unfortunately, as much as he'd like to enjoy this, to study this experimental toxin he'd only ever dreamed about completing, he really doesn't have time to draw it out. Gordon will be back soon and there are a few more things he'd like to examine.

"Now then, Mr. Blake," he says, wishing for his mask and the eerie quality it gives his voice, "_Scream_."

Blake complies without hesitation, and as his cries of terror echo off the walls of the penthouse, Crane can do nothing but smile.

**~DK~**

It doesn't take much effort to drag the writhing man into the closet, where he shuts the door definitively. The slam rings like satisfaction in his ears.

He turns his attention back to the box beside her bed. Most of the papers are from her past life – according to her birth certificate, her middle name is Ava – but there's a small photo album here, and he curiously flips through it. The pictures are taken in a variety of places: the zoo, the park, and even a few recitals, and featured in every one of them is a tall, slender woman with brilliant blue eyes and a soft smile, and his Songbird, young and fresh-faced and happy, often baring a toothless grin. There is no sign of war on her face, no mark of the hate she now wears like a second skin, and even her black eyes seem bright.

She looks overwhelmingly like her mother, save for her eyes, but he has no real basis for comparison since there isn't a man in any of the pictures. He remembers his assessment of her parents, about how he'd guessed her father had left her and her mother when she was young, and apparently he'd been right.

He turns to the very back, surprised to see a wedding photo taped to the back cover, just barely beginning to yellow at the edges. The blue-eyed woman looks radiant in a simple white gown at the altar of a church, a million-megawatt smile stretching her mouth. However, the man at her side is completely blacked out with marker from head to toe so that nothing about him is visible, violently erased from the happy scene. He marvels at how much his Songbird seems to despise a man she can likely barely remember.

Frowning thoughtfully, he shuts the book and continues his search through the box, wondering where she had kept it in her last apartment. He'd been over every inch of the place as she'd slept; he had never seen any of these things before.

And then his thoughts come to a screeching halt as he lifts a thin scarf from the box; his mask is staring back at him.

It's exactly as he'd left it: poorly-stitched and torn at the edges, the filtration device hanging in a tangle of wires and tubes like gutted entrails from the opening at the bottom.

The sight of it stirs something in him, something that has lain dormant for far too long, and while it doesn't fully awaken, the first tendrils of it begin to brush the edges of his mind.

_Hello, old friend._

She must have hidden it before Gordon and Blake removed his equipment from her kitchen. The thought makes him smirk. This, combined with the research tacked on the wall, reminds him just how lost in him she really is.

Which is why he's going to get her back.

He stands to leave, taking the mask from the box and tucking it under his arm, when a final slip of paper at the very bottom catches his eye. He bends back down to examine it. It's one of her compositions, and he can make out three words at the very top of the page: "_The Scarecrow's Lament._"

Intrigued, he picks it up and folds it delicately, before placing it in his pocket next to the antitoxin to look over later.

He glances at a clock on her bedside table; he's been here for almost an hour, and it's likely Gordon will be returning soon. While this visit has been... _enlightening_, he's still no closer to discovering the whereabouts of his Songbird, or who has taken her. He'd briefly suspected it might have been... he scowls and shakes his head to clear it. There has been no evidence of that, unfortunately, which places him back in square one. Crane mentally labels the situation under "problematic", before turning to leave.

As he does, the burlap tacked on the wall catches his eye, and a sudden thought strikes him with such force he freezes in his tracks. He glances down at his mask, and then back across the hall towards the room with the cradle.

_Surely not_, he reasons, but he's already through the door and entering the other room, the same grey rabbit resting lifelessly on the mattress of the crib. The other stuffed toys in the room are bright, colorful, store-bought and new. This one is older, more ragged, and... familiar.

He glances down at the mask again. Falcone had shipped his first version of the toxin into the Narrows using a stuffed rabbit that looked eerily similar. His Songbird wouldn't have known that, and if she had, why would she give _it_ a toy that was so closely related to her own past?

Slowly, he reaches down into the cradle and picks up the rabbit, turning it over to reveal the stitching in the back. It's loose. He carefully undoes it, sliding his fingers into the stuffing, and they close over something thin and flexible.

And he has his answer.

**A/N: Holy mother of plot twists, Batman! Okay, so I took a LOT of creative license with Bruce Wayne's penthouse. I did a ton of research, scanned movie scenes, and tweaked it a bit to fit my needs. Personally, I like the result, but I'm sorry if my interpretation offended any die-hard fans. **

**So are you confused yet? Did I take you by surprise with the cradle? Ask me your questions! I would be delighted to answer... or not. Mwahaha. Hope you enjoyed!**

**I only own Maestro and the OCs. Anything beyond that is the property of DC Comics. The recommended song for this chapter is "Find Me" by Christina Grimmie. **

**Special thanks to my beautiful beta, **Amai-chan1993, **who really beta'd the crap out of this one, ya'll. **

**Special thanks also to **Jasmine Scarthing, ObsidianPhantom, Miss Singing in the Rain, LostInTheMusic, Chocoholics Unite, If I Can Be, Liluri, Mimilover, JeanieBeanie33, ladymoonscar, takara410, LoverOfTheMusic, Eva Sirico, bloodysherlock, EveryoneHasDarknessIEmbracedIt, YoursAnnie, LiveALittle2011, and my two guests **for reviewing, as well as all those who fav'd or alerted! I was overwhelmed by the amount of feedback on the first chapter; you guys are the best! **

**_IMPORTANT_: Please remember that if you review as a guest, I am still exceedingly grateful for your support, but I am unable to thank you properly, or consequently respond to any questions you may have. If you do have questions, you must have an account for me to be able to answer you. **

**Don't forget to review and feed the muse! **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	3. Chapter III

_The Way We Fall_

_You've got a dark heart,  
__you've got a cold kiss..._

– "_Honey", The Hush Sound. _

_Chapter III_

It is dark, and on the gated, immaculately trimmed lawn of Wayne Manor, a figure can just barely be seen in the dusk, racing along the fence past the graveyard. Had anyone been watching – and no one is; the lone security guard is making his rounds on the other side of the building – they would notice the figure had a ponytail and a silver pendant dangling from her throat.

Her worn sneakers don't make so much as a whisper of noise against the grass; the only sound is the rush of wind through the leaves of the lone tree in the graveyard towards the front of the property. She makes her way to the side of the manor, eyes skimming the many windows there before lighting on one towards the back, three floors up from the ground. It's nearly undetectable in the dark, but during the daytime, a single music note scrawled in white paint can be seen in the upper left corner, and the girl smiles. Lights out was ten minutes ago, but no one in this room will be sleeping yet.

Reaching into her pocket, she removes a handful of pebbles and begins gracelessly lobbing them at the glass. (So the system hasn't been perfected yet. Sue her.) Several of them don't make contact, and she releases a few choice swear words at her terrible aim. But she hits the right spot enough times, and after a moment a light clicks on and the blinds open. A shadow appears in the frame of light, and then the window is opening and a rope of sheets is tossed out. (The system may not be perfect, but it _is_ well-practiced, and according to a certain musical recluse that's the next best thing.)

The girl scales the rope with almost laughable ease, and the moment her sneakers touch the floor inside she's assailed with questions.

"Scout, what's wrong?"

"Do you have news about the Arkham inmates?"

"Has something happened?"

This room is one of the few filled entirely with former Young members, and though Scout had never personally told them about the Arkham fiasco, Savvy and Jazz would have conveyed the warning to them as soon as they could. Right now, that's the least of her concerns.

"The Young needs help," she says, adjusting her ponytail as the five faces around her turn grave. The kids in the manor are the ones who willingly left the vigilante group after the war, who had only joined because Bane had killed their families or because they wanted to help free the city. They are, for the most part, normal kids, raised in good homes and not suited to a life on the streets.

But there are some things you never forget, and The Young is one of them. They had been a family, and in many ways they still are, and nothing would be able to sever that bond.

Sarah, who had, Scout remembered, at one point gone by the name Jinx, nods. She's sixteen now, the same age that Stitches was when she –

"I'll get the others," she volunteers, slipping from the room as Scout shakes off her memories and marvels at how willing she is to just drop everything to help.

The four other girls in the room crowd around her. Their ages range from fourteen to sixteen, and they are all Scout's primary points of contact when passing along information to the kids here. They bombard her with questions, but she doesn't answer until every former Young member has gathered in the room – twenty-six teens in total. They had been larger before, Scout reflects, but kids age out of the manor at eighteen and several of them have moved on.

"What's going on?" asks an older boy whose name she can't recall.

"Maestro's been kidnapped." Her answer snaps everyone to alertness. They haven't seen their former leader for over six months; she'd made semi-frequent visits at one point, but ever since the celebration/memorial service in February, marking the first anniversary of the day the city was freed, she'd disappeared from their lives. Scout was the only person to see her with any sort of frequency after that.

"By who?" Sarah asks, face grave, and Scout shakes her head.

"We don't know. There was a lot of blood, so we think she's hurt, but that's all we've got. She's been missing for three days now."

There's a rumble of anger throughout the group, before a few of the older ones make brief shushing noises to keep from alerting the adults to the illicit meeting. They've never congregated in such large numbers before; usually information is passed along gradually through the five girls who inhabit this room.

"Ji-, uh, Commissioner Gordon and John Blake are looking for her, but they can't do much since the police still consider her a criminal." That's probably the most enraging thing about the situation; Maestro had worked hard to free the cops from the sewers during the occupation, and they repay her by issuing a warrant for her arrest. "Savvy and Jazz are calling all hands on deck here, but anyone who doesn't want to help, doesn't have to." She goes quiet for a moment, then frowns. "But you should think about what she would do if any one of us was in her place."

There is silence as they all wordlessly acknowledge the answer: recluse or not, Maestro would go on a warpath. Without another moment of hesitation, Sarah grabs a bag from under her bed and begins piling clothes into it. Her four roommates do the same.

The boy from earlier is noticeably hesitant, as are several others. Scout can't really blame them; quite a few are on the fast track for adoption or, for the older ones, college, and leaving now could jeopardize their chances of rebuilding their lives.

But still others leave the room to gather their things; in a matter of minutes, Wayne Manor will be noticeably short several teens. The ones that decide to stay behind offer their help in any way they can from the security of the manor.

Scout understands and tells them so, because nothing in her had wanted to leave Jim, especially not so soon after his family's visit. But just because she's young doesn't mean she's stupid, and despite his many sincere promises to help Maestro, she knows there's only so much he'll be able to do for her. That's why she'd left this morning to rejoin The Young; the combined fury of Savvy and Jazz had always been the most effective method for getting things done. As much as she already misses Jim, and as much as she hates herself for hurting him the way she undoubtedly is, this has to be done. Maestro is in trouble, and there's nothing Scout won't do to help her.

She thinks of the blood she'd seen in the penthouse and the merciless way Rococo was beaten, and breathes a quick prayer to her sister as they slide, one by one, out of the window.

_We're coming, Maestro. Wherever you are, we're coming. _

**~DK~**

It is dark, but the hustle and bustle of the hospital hasn't died down. Actually, this is Gotham, so if anything the commotion has _escalated_ since the sun set – the city has been hit with a new crime wave after the death of Batman and the fall of Bane, which means an increase in violence.

He's losing his city _again_, and this time, he's not sure how he's going to save it. Gordon runs an exhausted hand through his hair as he goes to refill his coffee pot for the sixth time since he'd arrived. Blake's been in the emergency room for about two hours, and so far he hasn't received a single word on his condition.

With a sigh, he sits back down in the crowded waiting room, giving a gentle smile to the child in the corner with her arm in a makeshift sling, waiting to be treated – Gotham General really is backed up tonight.

Gordon had known something was wrong when an hour had passed and Blake still hadn't called to say he'd found anything. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he'd left the station and practically flown back to the penthouse, only to find Crane missing and his former detective on the floor of a closet, seizing and half out of his mind with fear.

He curses his own stupidity for the tenth time. He should've suspected Maestro kept the toxin she'd used during the war; Crane would have known that immediately. Gordon realizes now, too late, that it was the reason he'd said he needed to see her apartment in person – it was a carefully planned method of escape.

Which is just the cherry on top of everything else going on right now. The Arkham inmates are gone – _one_ in particular – Maestro's gone, Scout's gone, and now _Crane._

It's times like these when he could really use the Batman's help. His enigmatic friend had always helped him bear the heavy burden of protecting this city, and he needs it now more than ever.

"Commissioner Gordon?" A haggard-looking doctor in a white coat appears at the door of the room, drawing him immediately from his thoughts, and the officer rises to his feet and crosses the room to meet him.

"I'm Dr. Jordan," the man greets, shaking his hand, "John Blake is my patient."

"How is he?" Gordon presses, and the doctor sighs with exhaustion.

"Stable; we've got him sedated. We kept a version of the antidote to this kind of toxin on hand since the gas attack on the Narrows ten years ago, and while it wasn't entirely effective in this case, we managed to isolate the compound attacking his brain enough to stabilize him. We're building on the antidote now in order to fully counteract the damage."

"So he'll be alright?"

The doctor sighs once more and rubs the back of his neck. "It's difficult to say. We managed to get to him before any permanent mental damage could be done, but these things always have lasting repercussions. If all goes well, he'll be mentally stable, but there's no telling what he saw in his hallucinations, or how he'll remember them."

Gordon's blood runs cold at the thought, because _he_ remembers that night, ten years ago, when the city had nearly ripped itself to pieces in fear; he remembers the haunted gazes of those who were eventually cured and how they seemed to see ghosts everywhere.

He thanks the doctor and turns to go with a request that they call him should Blake's condition change, and the moment he does, his phone rings. Instinctively knowing it can't be anything good, he answers.

"Gordon."

"We've got a problem," comes a voice on the other end, and he recognizes it as one of his officers, Jameson.

"What's wrong?"

"You know how you said your kid, Scout, ran away earlier today? Wasn't she a member of The Young?"

Gordon frowns. Scout is a topic often whispered about among his subordinates, from her past to his motives for taking her in, and while he does his best to shield her from the scrutinizing gaze of the public, he isn't always successful. He'd reported her disappearance this afternoon, and he knows it will only add fuel to the fire.

"Yes, what about it? Did you find her?" he demands, and Jameson seems to sigh.

"Not exactly. But fifteen kids disappeared from the Children's Home not thirty minutes ago. And guess what they all had in common?"

"They're former Young members," Gordon doesn't need to hear Jameson's small noise of confirmation to know he's correct. Maestro's former lieutenants are working fast; he'd been afraid of exactly this scenario. He curses under his breath.

"You think it's related?" Jameson asks.

"Probably," is all he can bring himself to say; this isn't going to end well.

"What does this mean? Are they planning something?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Jameson. Anything else?"

"No, but the mayor's been informed. He wants to see you."

_That_ can't be good. Mayor Hill has already been on his case about the missing Arkham inmates; Young activity on top of that is only going to make everything worse.

"Right. Jameson, get down to the manor and see if you can get the kids to tell you anything about what's going on." He knows it won't do any good, but if he wants to continue to search for Maestro unhindered he has to keep up appearances.

"Yes, sir." Jameson ends the call, and Gordon cringes at the tension headache building up behind his eyes as he gets in his car to go to the mayor's office.

It's going to be a long night.

**~DK~**

It is dark, which means the city's nightlife is out in full swing, and no matter how many years Crane has lived in this godforsaken city, this is still the most repulsive part. The pretty, stupid people are out getting drunk, partying their worthless little lives away for no other reason than that it seems to suit them, and honestly, does no one here _think?_

He forces back his revulsion and redirects his focus to the task at hand; tonight, Gotham's normally repellent nocturnal socialites are going to be of use to him – one man in particular. Frowning, he fingers the item, concealed in his inner jacket pocket, that he'd found inside the rabbit at her penthouse. No matter how much he tries to focus on the task at hand or convince himself to consider the situation at another time, the sight of that cradle continues to reappear in his mind with alarming frequency.

It just doesn't make _sense_, and his normally logical, rational mind can't seem to work it out. There had been no signs of a man living with her, and the idea was ridiculous anyway; she has an aversion to any sort of intimacy.

Besides, she's _his_.

Anger builds in his chest as it always does whenever he considers the idea of another man being with her, but as illogical as it seems, no other explanation comes to mind. She wouldn't take in a child that wasn't hers, not with her mental state being what it is – he'd recognized the signs of depression, agoraphobia, and PTSD. Perhaps the cradle is just a part of the clue, or a ruse to distract him, but it's fairly elaborate and he doubts this idea too.

Suddenly intensely annoyed, he adjusts his suit jacket, procured along with one of his more advanced toxin dispensers from his safe house, and slips easily through a rusty door in the narrow alleyway where he's been quietly lost in thought.

The club is bright and loud, lit up in every neon color imaginable, and the walls and floor thrum with the bass pulsing through the speakers. In the center of the establishment, bodies writhe in a sweaty, hormone-charged mockery of dance, tightly packed with the drunk and the young and the naive.

He takes all of this in from the sidelines, easily sidestepping inebriated barflies and frat boys high out of their minds, making his way steadily to the stairs leading to the second floor. Halfway there, a young woman stops him, clearly intoxicated, and asks him with a crooked, sloppy grin to buy her another drink. He doesn't respond, merely stares at her and waits for her grip on his jacket to loosen. She pulls away a moment later, instinctually unnerved by his gaze even in her impaired state, and he moves on.

The second level is somewhat quieter, though the floor still trembles from the so-called music pounding away downstairs. There are tables here, though only one of them is occupied, and the reason for this is that this is Salvatore Maroni's club, and this is where he does his business. Of course, now that Maroni's getting on in years, Crane has heard a rumor that his sons are taking over the most of their father's affairs – but he also knows that's just a farce. Maroni still controls everything and likely will until the day he dies – though whether that will be from natural causes or patricide is anyone's guess.

But that means that Maroni is still acutely aware of any criminal activity that goes on in this town, no matter how small or how hushed, which makes him perfect for Crane's purposes.

One of Maroni's thugs stops him with a grunt as he approaches the man's table, where the mob boss is alternating between playing cards with a few of his men and watching the scene down below. Upon seeing him approach, Maroni sits back in his chair with a slick smile on his face, toying with his cane.

"Dr. Crane," he greets with a nod, "didn't know you made it out with the other psychos."

Crane merely raises an eyebrow as the thug pats him down. The man's hand lands on his toxin dispenser, intending to remove it from his belt, but Crane grabs his wrist in warning and gives a shake of his head. The thug glowers, looking back at his boss, who also shakes his head, and he steps away balefully.

Crane moves closer to Maroni's table, watching him carefully. After suffering through the headache of dealing with Falcone ten years ago, he had quite deliberately avoided working with mob bosses, as he found the continuous posturing and arrogance to be an _immense_ waste of his time. Unfortunately, dealing with this one is necessary to finding his Songbird.

"What can I do for you?" asks Maroni, gesturing for him to take a seat, and he does so, resting his briefcase on the floor.

"I'm trying to find someone," Crane replies coolly, reaching into the lining of his jacket and withdrawing the item that had lead him here, and the man's face goes ever-so-slightly paler.

"I can't help you there. I haven't heard anything," Maroni says, his posture as casual and carefree as ever, but his eyes are narrowed on him intently and Crane doesn't buy it for a second.

"_Anything?_" he drawls the word in mock concern, flipping the object casually between his fingers, and the warning is abundantly clear in his tone. The thugs – there are five of them – all shift in their positions, ready for a fight, but Crane knows, as does Maroni, that their brute strength would have little effect on his control over the human psyche. A flick of his wrist, and he leaves everyone at this table screaming loudly enough to drown out the noise from downstairs.

Maroni seems to read all of that in his gaze, because he twirls his cane again and licks his teeth thoughtfully.

"There's a chick," he begins, and Crane sits back in his chair, gratified, "a hot one. She comes around my son's nightclub on the other side of town. She'll have the answers you're lookin' for."

"Her name?" Crane asks, and Maroni shakes his head.

"Don't know. You can't miss her though: tall, blonde, carries a baseball bat around. She'll be able to point you in the right direction."

Crane frowns subtly, analyzing this new information. A baseball bat is a fairly specific accessory; the description doesn't sound like someone he knows and the concept disturbs him. Still, he rises to his feet, adjusting his jacket again before glaring imperiously down at Maroni.

"I'll need the name of that club."

The man studies him a moment further, gaze thoughtful.

"Listen, Doc," he begins after a moment, leaning forward from his relaxed position to scribble something down on a napkin, "whatever it is you're doin', I'd advise you to be careful. People like that are better off left alone."

It occurs to Crane that this is Maroni's attempt at trying to trick him into revealing leverage-worthy information. Men like him are rarely satisfied with doing business without asserting – or, in this case, attempting to gain – some level of control.

With a raise of his eyebrow, Crane casually swipes the napkin off the table and tucks it in his pocket. He recognizes the name of the club; that will be his next stop for the evening, and he internally sighs at the thought of having to endure more of the local nightlife.

"Have a good evening, Mr. Maroni," is all he says in response, sweeping from the room without a backwards glance.

What kind of woman carries a baseball bat?

**~DK~**

The late Mayor Garcia had not been an imposing man. A fierce idealist, yes, and someone who stood firm in the face of frequent deadly adversity, and Gordon could say without any doubt that he had wanted what was best for Gotham, but he had also been personable, and at times even friendly.

Mayor Hamilton Hill, on the other hand, is a different story.

The man gives off an aura of someone who has power and likes it, and who will go to great lengths to keep hold of it. He speaks as though he was born to give orders; walks as though everyone else was born to scramble out of his way. Tall and broad-shouldered, his thinning grey hair is immaculately combed and his glasses are placed lightly upon his nose almost as an afterthought, as though perfect vision is somehow secondary to a perfectly intimidating appearance.

(Gordon has the sneaking suspicion that Maestro would take one look at him and scoff.)

They're seated in the older man's office, one that Garcia had occupied not so very long ago, and the sight of Hill at his predecessor's desk is, even after nearly two years, still so fundamentally _wrong_ that Gordon has to do a double-take nearly every time he visits.

"What progress is being made on the Arkham case?" Hill doesn't bark, exactly, but the tone of his question is something very close. At least Gordon can't deny that he gets directly to the point; it would seem he's about to be berated for every single issue currently plaguing Gotham. He considers it a blessing that there's no way the mayor could know about Crane's escape; the situation has already been explained to the director of the asylum, who took the news surprisingly well – but then again, it didn't happen on his watch, so he can't be held responsible.

"We're using every available resource to locate and apprehend the missing inmates. So far, nothing's turned up. Wherever they are, they're hiding well," the commissioner responds, the same way he has every time he's been asked this question, which has been at least once a week for over a month now. "We've placed security checkpoints at every route out of Gotham, so whatever they're doing, they aren't trying to escape the city." Though given who, exactly, is among their number, this is hardly a surprise.

"My men have been investigating the theory that they had help from inside the asylum, but we haven't gotten any leads as to who that would be. It looks like whoever helped them disappeared with them, but the list of missing staff is surprisingly long; it's impossible to weed out hostages from those who aided in the escape, not with bodies still turning up," the commissioner continues.

Hill levels him with a measuring stare and nods once, as though he'd already been aware of all of this – which somehow isn't surprising. The mayor's contacts have been known to be... _questionable_, to say the least.

"And what about The Maestro? Are you any closer to finding her?" The mayor asks this question almost offhandedly, resting back in his seat with a deceptively casual air.

"With all due respect, Sir, she's hardly our top priority. Our intel says she hasn't been leading The Young since Bane. She's completely disappeared from the streets," Gordon replies easily. Hill's gaze narrows in on him.

"And by intel, you mean the little girl you took in after the occupation?"

He knows immediately where this is going, and it isn't anywhere good. "Yes, Sir. Her name is Scout."

"She has no family? Nowhere else to go?"

Gordon is getting very tired of explaining himself about this. "Nowhere but the foster system."

Hill gives a derisive scoff. "That's what the system is _for_, Gordon."

"Her mother saved my life, and I promised Scout and her sister I'd look after them. Unfortunately, only Scout made it out of Bane's occupation alive, and I should be out looking for her. So if you'll excuse me Mr. Mayor, what exactly do you need?" Gordon presses, uncomfortable with the train of the conversation.

Hill narrows his eyes at his directness. The mayor has never liked him, he knows, and while that's nothing new, he's never come out and admit it as others have before. He doesn't hide his dislike, but he doesn't address it either, and the balance is distinctly unsettling.

"I need you to do your job and _handle this_," the man snaps, his calm demeanor evaporating, "Clearly the Maestro has returned to the Young and is planning something; why else would former Young members be disappearing after so long without action if not to rejoin her?"

"I've stated before that I don't think Maestro is a threat to the peace. She wouldn't do something like this. I worked with her when Bane took over; she cares about those kids and wouldn't dare disrupt their chances at rebuilding their lives," Gordon responds calmly, and Hill's face distorts into something like disgust.

"She's a _vigilante_, Gordon, and a kid; she does whatever she feels is necessary, and she needs to be put down. And _you_ need to set aside whatever soft spot you have for her and bring her in, because this is getting out of hand. The people are going to panic; they always do when missing kids are involved." The unspoken "and that's bad for the polls" hangs in the air between them.

The mayor leans closer, pressing the large frame of his upper half over the gleaming mahogany desktop and lowering his voice to something very much like a growl. "And if I find out that you know where she is, or that you're aiding her in any way whatsoever, well..." his voice trails off as his mouth curls into a cruel mockery of a smile, "I don't think I have to spell out the consequences for you, do I?"

Gordon doesn't dignify the blatant threat with any response other than a single, slow nod. Realizing his point has been made, the mayor sits back again, folding his hands in front of him as though no unpleasantness whatsoever has occurred.

"Handle it, Gordon. Find the inmates, find the kids, do your job. Or I'll find someone else who can. Understood?"

This, unfortunately, requires a verbal response, and the commissioner gives it with another nod of his head.

"Completely, Sir."

**~DK~**

This club is much like the first, only larger and somehow louder, a feat he previously hadn't known was possible until just now. Crane takes a brief moment to reflect on the irony of searching for his Songbird in places she would most likely despise before entering and letting the familiar scent of alcohol and sweat wash over him.

Despite Maroni's claim that he "couldn't miss" the mystery woman who could give him the answers he wants, it's immediately obvious that this won't be quite that easy. There are _dozens_ of blonde women here, and he can't see them all through the vibrant, gyrating mob of people. The thought of making his way through the throng to search for her is extremely unappealing, so he skirts the edges of the three floors, all filled to the brim with patrons. He's unsurprised when he doesn't see anyone with a bat.

Resisting the urge to growl in annoyance, he makes his way back to the first floor and takes a seat at the very end of the bar, removed from the chaos around him, and simply observes. At the head of the room, a band is playing, and the singer is belting out lyrics laced with sexual undertones and double entendres to an audience too drunk to care about the poor quality of the music.

It continues on like this for twenty more minutes with no sign of abating – not that he expects it to – and Crane continues to watch. The woman could be anywhere, or not here at all. He releases a quiet sigh at the thought of having to return another night if she isn't.

Just as he is about to get up and leave, his arm is jostled by someone suddenly leaning over the bar next to him.

"I'll have a Sea Breeze, thanks." The voice is feminine and familiar enough to make him glance over. A young woman is standing there, her gaze fixed on the bartender as he mixes her drink. She's wearing black jeans and a red blouse, and her curly blonde hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, leaving several long strands to fall messily around her face. But most distinctive thing of all is the baseball bat resting against the bar by her heeled boots, painted black and red in a peculiar diamond pattern.

"See something you like, Handsome?" she purrs, swinging her head around to face him, and he recognizes her immediately, everything else clicking into place.

"Dr. Quinzel," he murmurs, covering his initial surprise easily, taking in her dark eye makeup and scarlet-painted lips. _So the rumors were true._

"Wondered how long it would take you," she says with a quick little grin, "you work fast." Her Brooklyn accent, which had been barely noticeable in Arkham, is now layering her words evenly.

Before he can respond, there's a loud crash to his left as a drunken patron stumbles onstage and knocks over a set of cymbals, and the noise rings violently through the club. Noticing his annoyance, she grins again and takes her drink from the bartender, sipping at it happily.

"You wanna take this outside?" It's not really a question because she's already swept up her bat and begun moving, and he can do nothing but follow her, his mind brimming with questions. Quinzel makes her way easily through the crowd, sidestepping and whirling and ducking with remarkable grace, and she never spills a drop of her drink.

When they finally make it out into the cool night air, she lets out a soft laugh before raising her glass and spinning around a few times. She's not drunk; she just has the air of a child given free rein – a drastic change from the professional persona she had displayed at the asylum.

"So," she finally says, leaning back against the alley wall, her boot and bat propped up against it almost lazily, "what's up, Doc?"

He takes out the item from his pocket and tosses it at her feet; the flickering orange light over the door illuminates a cruelly-grinning joker card.

"Where is she?" he demands softly, and she laughs.

"So direct! But then, you always were, _Jonathan_," she purrs, leaning towards him and emphasizing the low cut of her blouse. He's briefly quiet as he takes her in.

Everything about her is designed to make a man take notice, from the fit of her jeans to the strip of skin visible between her waistline and her top, to the way the material hugs her figure. Her lips are bright and her eyes are dark; though he can tell the latter isn't strictly due to makeup. She's got deep circles under her baby-blues, and there's something... ever-so-slightly _off_ about her smile, like it's continually trying to stretch fuller, wider.

Quinzel had been a new recruit at the asylum just about the time he'd begun his work with the League of Shadows, and she had been as eager as only someone with her youth and inexperience could've been. Organized, clean-cut, and with a strict observance of the rules, she'd shown remarkable enthusiasm for her work and had what had seemed to be a sickeningly genuine empathy for the patients. Not that he'd paid much attention; he'd been a bit too busy lacing the city's water supply with his formula. They hadn't gotten along, but they hadn't been enemies, either; they had merely been content to avoid one another due to the obvious personality clash.

The whispers had started just after the Harvey Dent fiasco. A patient himself then, he could only listen as his fellow inmates muttered about what cell Dr. Quinzel seemed to be spending a lot of her time around, about how she had been forced to take a few days leave because of the hours she was putting in, and didn't Dr. Quinzel sure look nice in that brand-new purple dress? It was no secret what was happening; he was only surprised it had taken this long for her to act on it.

It takes a weak mind to be manipulated the way she so obviously had been, but it takes another kind of mind to become what she's on the fast track to becoming, and he isn't certain what to make of it.

"You know, you just lost me a bet," she says, kicking at the card by her feet and breaking him from his thoughts, "I told Pete you wouldn't get the rabbit joke, but he bet me ten bucks you would." She gives a mock sigh and leans her head back against the wall, sipping her drink. "Then again, I was convinced you weren't gonna get out of Arkham to begin with. You're just full of surprises. How'd you swing that, anyway?"

"Where is she?" he tries again, softer, his gaze drilling into her fiercely.

"Mmm. Not telling."

He takes a threatening step forward, but she raises her free hand in a gesture of peace.

"Hey, hey relax. We're gonna let you have her. Just not yet. She's gotta do some stuff first, and you gotta find her yourself, and then there's a last little surprise for you at the end. It's all part of the joke."

She knocks back the last of her drink before leaning towards him again, her eyes flicking down to the dispenser at his belt.

"And you could use _that_, sure, and I'd probably talk, but if you don't play the game right, well..." she clicks her tongue in mock-regret, "it's not gonna end well for your girl."

She punctuates the threat by tossing her glass in a neat little arc down the alley and watching with almost childlike delight as it shatters into a million crystalline pieces.

He studies her carefully, but before he can respond she's facing him again, the flickering light casting crooked shadows on her already crooked smile.

"She's a little spitfire, your girl. We've got her sedated right now, 'cause she wouldn't stop fighting and she was just hurting herself, and we kinda need her intact, but we're gonna wake her up tomorrow." A smirk. "This time, she'll be as docile as a puppy."

His brow creases briefly in thought. "You'd have to have enormous leverage on her to control her that much." He'd seen her fight while held at _gunpoint_ before; a docile Maestro isn't a concept he's able to reconcile in his mind.

The grin that splits Quinzel's face is more hyena than human, and her only response is a small hum of agreement.

"What does he want?" Crane finally asks, and she shakes her head.

"Oh no, Handsome. You had your chance to find out the easy way back in Arkham, but now you gotta play the game. Sorry, I don't make the rules."

He tries another tack. "What do you need her for?"

Her eyes light up and she pushes off the wall, sauntering towards him in a way that's almost predatory. He doesn't move, merely watches her approach, and when she finally stops she's so close he can taste her breath, bittersweet from the drink she just consumed. Her hands idly reach up to adjust the collar of his jacket.

"Keep an eye on the news, Jonathan," she says his name on a purr again, "your girl's about to make the front page."

She presses a light kiss to his cheek and turns to leave, trailing a very deliberate hand down his shirt, before he catches her hand and jerks her back. Warning flares in her eyes for a brief instant, but he ignores it.

"She had better be in one piece, Quinzel. Or it's not going to end well for _you_."

She gives an airy laugh and slips free of his hold, grabbing her bat and lazily swinging it over her shoulder.

"I can't make any promises, Jonathan," she says, footsteps crunching on glass as she exits the alley. He watches her go, irritation flooding his frame.

"And please," Quinzel's voice cuts through the air one last time, "call me Harley."

**A/N: I've casted Harley, like many others before me, as the late Brittany Murphy, but feel free to imagine whoever you like. I'm putting my own twist on her, because I'm tired of the same "mindlessly, blindingly, stupidly in love" arc, so I'm gonna explore her character a little bit and see what happens. On a similar note, I've never seen Batman: The Animated Series, so I'm characterizing Hamilton Hill based on what I read online and my own personal preference. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, folks, stay tuned for more!**

**_ALSO:_ drop whatever you're doing and go check out the brilliant and beautiful Hallow Bird's Batman story, "The Crooked Kind"; she's starting her own Crane/OC, so let's show her our support, shall we? **

**I only own Maestro and the OCs. Anything beyond that is the property of DC Comics. The recommended song for this chapter is "Honey", by The Hush Sound, and really the whole song is applicable to Harley Quinn, if you think about it. **

**Special thanks to **Amai-chan1993** for editing this**!** Y'all only wish your beta was as awesome as mine. **

**Special thanks also to:** AssassinsCreedFAN, JeanieBeanie33, Miss Singing in the Rain, ForgeandGred4Ever, LostInTheMusic, Jasmine Scarthing, Chocoholics Unite, Guestesy, Against-the-World-in-Every-Way, Liluri, tina, Kagome Narome, Silver Katsuyami, EveApplefield, The Valshae, densrl, Nixistix97, Johanna Crane, **and my three **Guests **for reviewing! Thanks also to everyone who fav'd or alerted!**

**Please review and tell me what you think; I'd love to hear any questions you may have!**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


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